


Special Tactics and Reconnaissance

by istie



Series: Every One That Asketh [9]
Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Alliance Infiltrator Shepard, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, C-Sec Investigator Garrus Vakarian, EOTA-verse, Gen, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Torture, Rescue Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 00:54:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30114678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/istie/pseuds/istie
Summary: [AU ofEvery One That Asketh.]Lieutenant Shepard, an Alliance infiltrator on assignment seeking her N7 status, has been missing for two months.  The Alliance reaches out to the Council for assistance, and they pass the matter to Executor Vakarian, who knows just the man for the job: his son, newly minted Detective Garrus Vakarian.
Series: Every One That Asketh [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2171175
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Special Tactics and Reconnaissance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aze/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Every One That Asketh](https://archiveofourown.org/works/921546) by [istie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/istie/pseuds/istie). 



> Written as a gift for @Aze, on her prompt! 
> 
> This is a canon divergence of _Every One That Asketh_ , going way back in time to 2177 so that 24-year-old, hot-shot rising star detective Garrus Vakarian has the chance to get Shepard out of the absolute hell she's been in for months now. That being said, while you'll definitely get more out of this if you've read EOTA, you shouldn't have any problem following along if you haven't. :) Enjoy!

> ` 1903 hours, February 1, 2178, Illium Northern Standard Time `   
>  ` Illium, Tasale System, Crescent Nebula `   
>  ` Nos Astra, Commercial Spaceport, Customs and Border Control `

Garrus tapped a talon impatiently on his gauntlet, arms crossed. If this was such an important mission, then really, why did he have to wait in line with everyone else? Honestly, he was pretty sure this was just another assignment meant to keep him out of the way. Thanks, Dad.

Supposedly, this was some sort of cooperative assignment between the Council and the Systems Alliance—which, given that the Council had outsourced it to C-Sec instead of a Spectre, meant that it couldn’t be as important as his father had impressed upon him three days before.

“Garrus,” Aelianus had said, wearing his ultra-serious executor face, “I’m sending you to Illium.”

He’d raised an eyebrow. “Illium is _definitely_ outside C-Sec jurisdiction.”

“I’m aware of that.” His father had stood up from his desk, then, and beckoned him over to the balcony. He’d looked out over the lake for several moments, then continued: “Which is why C-Sec will be maintaining plausible deniability over the whole operation. You’re going in silent, you _must_ remain unnoticed, and above all else, secrecy is an _absolute necessity._ ”

But no pressure, right?

So now here he was, waiting in line to go through customs, waiting to _properly_ get started on an assignment which for all he knew was a wild goose chase: find the Alliance operative who hadn’t made her exfil date two months earlier.

Her name was Shepard. Few months younger than him, apparently some sort of spec-ops prodigy. Short, but otherwise her physical characteristics could be just about anything: she had free rein to alter her appearance in order to create her infiltration persona.

_Plenty_ to go on. He rolled his eyes. He was good, and he knew it, but Spirits above, give a man a few crumbs.

The only other thing the Alliance had shared with the Council was that Shepard had been seen in the company of Har’stein Weiak, the chair of the board of the Silver Star: a _nasty_ piece of work, they were, an indentured-servant racket that specialized in high-end… merchandise. Slavery, really. Shit like that made his plates itch. So _wrong_. Do what you want, of course, as long as it doesn’t get in the way of your responsibilities – not like he hadn’t had _that_ drummed into him for the past twenty-four years – but slavery? That was taking away another sapient’s right to decide their own life. Not okay. _Not_ okay.

His mission was pretty damn simple, as it were. Find Shepard. If she was alive, get her out; if she wasn’t, close the case. No restrictions. No red tape. He had an expense account that he was pretty sure rivaled Councillor Sparatus’, a safe house in the Calatrava District, and a deadline of one month.

He reflected that, if it hadn’t been his father giving him the job, he probably would have jumped at the chance. This was almost Spectre-level freedom—but Aelianus _hated_ the Spectres with a passion, so there had to be strings _somewhere:_ Garrus just hadn’t found them yet.

Sigh. He oughtn’t look a gift _caliptri_ in the mouth. Take the money and run, Vakarian. Do your job. You’re not C-Sec Investigation’s fastest-rising rookie for nothing.

If Shepard was alive, he’d find her.

Time to walk into hell.

* * *

> ` 2043 hours, February 12, 2178, Illium Northern Standard Time `   
>  ` Nos Astra, Thiva District, Chania Plaza `   
>  ` Megara Hall `

He straightened the sleeve of his suit jacket, checked the holster of the tiny little handgun underneath: it was secure. Flick of the wrist, suddenly he was armed. The things you could get outside Council jurisdiction…

He walked up the steps, flashed his omnitool at the security guard; his console glowed green, indicating Garrus was on the guest list, and the batarian stepped aside, motioning him in. Garrus nodded, and walked on.

Tonight was yet another of Illium’s endless parade of galas, premieres, and soirées, each and every one of them designed solely for the rich and famous to get utterly wasted and cause as much property damage as they possibly could. This one was being hosted by Har’stein Weiak himself. Scum, if you asked Detective Vakarian, which of course no one here would. Just another piece of scum in a pond that positively _reeked_ of it.

Garrus had spent his first few days gathering intel and building his cover. He never thought he’d be _grateful_ for the ridiculous social clout that came with being a Vakarian, but he had to admit (grudgingly, through clenched mandibles) that the boring, stuffy clan meetings and society parties he’d attended growing up had, in fact, been excellent preparation for things like this. He knew exactly what to wear, exactly when to arrive and in what sort of vehicle, and exactly who to talk to – and how. Nothing deep. All frivolous, shallow, sweet nothings, as luxuriant and as ultimately meaningless as the incredibly expensive suit he was wearing. (Though he had to admit, it fit beautifully, and he looked _damn_ good.)

He was beginning to see the various reasons his father had given him this mission, and his familiarity with high society was certainly one of them. Another was his aptitude for reading situations instantly, his razor-sharp observational skills distilling a room to its essential details in a matter of seconds. (He was looking at getting a Kuwashii visor while he was here, to bring those skills to the next level: he’d been considering one for a while now, but the model he wanted to use as a base for the mods he was planning was… well, it wasn’t quite legal, let’s put it that way.) Garrus had been to several of these events now, and it hadn’t taken him long to scope out his target: based on the video clip he’d been forwarded from one Admiral Steven Hackett, it looked like Lieutenant Shepard was currently functioning as Har’stein Weiak’s personal attendant.

And if even half the rumours he’d heard were true… He shuddered. The poor girl.

He’d caught a couple glimpses of Weiak and his attendant at about half of the events he’d been to: Weiak was _always_ swarmed, _never_ alone (nervous much?), and very, very hard to follow. His security team was excellent.

But tonight, he was the host: he’d be busy, but he had to make the rounds. _With_ his attendant. So with any luck, Garrus would finally get a good look at her—and, at the very least, confirm whether or not the woman in the clip that Hackett had identified as Shepard was, in fact, the woman in question.

A black-suited quarian offered Garrus a tray of tall glasses, filled with something bubbly and vaguely blue-tinged: he took one, because not taking anything would look strange, and moved on. Part of him wanted to sneak into the back and start hacking all the servants’ control implants. He wanted to do it _so badly._ But no. One thing at a time. Plausible deniability. Get Shepard and get out.

A jacket that looked like it was made of more sequins than fabric caught the light and nearly blinded him: there was the man of the hour, their illustrious host, the last honourable batarian in Council space… Har’stein Weiak, everybody! (Garrus took a drink, because otherwise he thought he’d probably be sick.) Weiak waved to the crowd, said something or other about the business of the night (very funny…), and told them all to have fun. (Another drink. They didn't put enough in these glasses.)

Ah. There she was.

… Oh.

Her dress was a shimmering, flowing, _floating_ swirl of greens and blues, almost like a cloud—no, more like the ocean. It made him think of the Myrtoan Sea, east off the Kyklades Islands, on a summer evening, almost dusk. She was slim – the dress hugged her waist, her shoulders were uncovered, and _wow_ , he hadn’t known humans’ collarbones looked like _that_. Her neck was long and stately, her demeanour almost regal. If she hadn’t been the spitting image of the woman in Hackett’s clip, he would have guessed that she was another heiress, or simulstim star, or… Spirits only knew what she would have been, but infiltrator and spec-ops genius wouldn’t have been his first guess.

She was also in _significant_ pain, if her body language was anything to go by: she was holding herself as if she had at least a couple cracked ribs, plus her left arm didn’t seem to move quite the same way as her right one did, and it looked like it was hurting her, too. She was hiding it very well, mind you. He doubted anyone here would have been able to tell—but _he_ happened to be an expert in such things.

That was her, beyond a shadow of a doubt. She wasn’t in good physical form anymore – she looked malnourished, on top of the injuries – but he could see the military training in her movement, and the spec-ops training in the way she looked at the room. If this _wasn’t_ her, then the Alliance had lost _two_ operatives, and they hadn’t found out about the second one yet.

Now.

How to get her out.

* * *

> ` 0509 hours, February 19, 2178, Illium Northern Standard Time `   
>  ` Nos Astra, Calatrava District, Silver Wing Promenade `

He parked the Mark I 2178 Blackout (if his father hadn’t expected him to get something nice on the expense account, well, too bad) in a back alley, locked it, and headed for the ostentatious mansion three blocks away. If he was very, very lucky, he’d have Shepard in that skycar within the hour.

And Garrus Sophronius Vakarian made his own damn luck, thank you very much.

He blinked, activating the new Kuwashii, and couldn’t stop his excited grin as the display flashed across his retina. Oh, beautiful. He was going to have _so much fun_ with this.

Ahem. Work. Yes.

He strode down the street confidently, in no hurry. There weren’t many people around at this time of the morning, not in this neighbourhood anyway, but on Illium chances were pretty good that no one would pay you any mind if you looked like you belonged.

It took him a spare few minutes to reach the back door of Har’stein Weiak’s mansion. The sprawling complex took up at least four city blocks, and from what Garrus could see through the fence, just as much of it was empty grounds as was overly glitzy housing. Classy. He buzzed the gate comm, waited a moment. A turian voice came through the speaker. “Business?” the man inquired.

“Delivery for one of your girls,” he said casually. “Supposed to hand it over personally.”

“We haven’t got anything on record,” the other turian said, suspiciously.

“From an admirer,” he replied. “Said his name was the Marquis.” This was the longest shot of the whole operation. If this name drop didn’t work, if the man the rumour mill called the Marquis d’Apien was _not_ , in point of fact, known to Weiak… then Garrus would be back to square one. Well, maybe square five. But still. It’d be a hell of a setback.

Silence from the comm. Garrus held his breath. Come on, come _on…_

The gate buzzed. “Alright,” came the voice. “You’re clear.”

_Yes._

* * *

Another short conversation later, and he found himself outside a door in the main wing of the mansion, which opened onto a suite of rooms adjacent to the servants’ wing. These were the quarters of Weiak’s personal attendant, whose name was apparently Isabel. The staff didn’t expect her to be awake yet (only the kitchen, cleaning, and guard staff were, at the moment: attendants stayed up until all hours with Weiak’s guests, and Isabel was no exception), but a message from the Marquis would not be turned away. He was so glad that guess had been right.

He knocked. (Swinging doors? Really?) No answer – he was about to knock again when the door opened, revealing an asari. Deep blue, indigo markings. Definitely not Shepard. “Yes?” she asked, and Garrus could tell that she, too, was here under duress. _You can’t save them all_ , he told himself. _Not yet._

“I have a delivery for Miss Isabel,” he said, “from the Marquis.” The asari flinched _._ Huh. That was an interesting reaction.

“Y-yes, of course, sir,” the asari said, bowing him into the room. “Please, if you would, wait here: I’ll wake Miss Isabel and get her ready.”

He hadn’t expected Shepard to have her own attendants. This could cause issues. But maybe… “Oh, don’t worry about that,” he said. “The Marquis said she might be asleep this early in the morning, and to just go in àif that were the case.”

The asari looked very, _very_ nervous. “Um, well, sir, as you will, but—Miss Isabel, she—she isn’t quite ready for _visitors_ yet, if you take my meaning. Or deliveries. Please, sir, I promise it won’t be long, I can get her ready right away.”

Garrus blinked several times, attempting to piece together the asari’s… implications… oh, _Spirits on high, what the actual fuck went on here._ “That is of no import to me,” he continued, a bit of an edge to his voice. “I will see Miss Isabel whether she is ready or not, and you will remain here.” He felt sick. So, so sick.

She quailed, backed up a step, bowed again. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Please accept my apologies.” She motioned to a door on the other side of the room. “Miss Isabel’s chambers are just there. I will remain here, should you… need anything.”

He wanted to burn this place to the _ground._ “Thank you,” he said, and headed for Shepard’s door.

Upon opening it, he had to wait a moment for his eyes (and his new visor) to adjust to the darkness: once he had, he saw a bedroom as big as some apartments, decorated lavishly, completely tastelessly, and with far more hooks, loops, and bars than bedrooms ought to have. _Chacun à son goût_ , perhaps, but this was a bit much…

There was a heat signature sprawled across the bed (which could have fit five): the visor told him her heart rate was high, her breathing quick – but she wasn’t moving. Hadn’t even moved when he’d opened the door. Asleep? He closed the door, not attempting to muffle the noise: she twitched. This visor was already paying for itself: he never would have seen that without the infrared.

He scanned the room for cameras and bugs before doing anything else: there were several, but their security was almost laughably mundane. He hacked them to play the thirty seconds before he’d entered on loop until he ended the program. There. Now he could talk to her freely.

He approached the bed. As he did so, he saw Shepard raise her head slightly from the pillow: as she registered his presence, her heart rate spiked _hard._ “Sir,” she said, and her voice was raspy, “I wasn’t told to expect you. I’m hardly… how you’d like.”

“You don’t have to pretend,” he murmured, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “I’m not here to hurt you.” She didn’t seem to know how to respond. Clearly, that wasn’t in the standard script. Well, in for a chit, in for a credit… “But I understand: when in Rome…”

“Do as the Romans do,” she responded automatically. Code phrases. Couldn’t live without them. “You’re not Alliance,” she breathed. “You’re _definitely_ not Alliance.”

“No,” he agreed. “My name is—”

Her hand shot up, covered his mouth. “ _Don’t,_ ” she hissed.

He lifted his hand, brought hers down. “The cameras and bugs are on loop,” he said. “And it’s five in the morning. We’re fine.”

She narrowed her eyes. “How did you get in?”

“Clever bit of name dropping.”

“Whose?”

“Someone named the Marquis.”

She trembled, though he could only feel it in her hand (so strange, with its extra fingers, but so soft and warm). “How many people heard you use his name?”

He furrowed his brow. “Two? Three?”

“Oh God.” She threw herself off the bed, stripped off whatever she was wearing, and flung open a wardrobe. “How fast can you move?”

He got up, followed her. “Fast. Vehicle’s three blocks down. Just have to get you out.”

She glared at the contents of the hangers, then shuffled through them and picked something. It didn’t look particularly warm or sensible, but it seemed to at least have legs rather than a skirt, so that was something. “You’ll need to deactivate whatever the hell they put in my head.”

“In your—they _what?”_ Control implants were usually in an _arm_ , not the _head,_ Spirits on _high_.

“You heard me. Come on, we can’t count on having much time.” She was dressed, and now had her back to him, holding her hair up above her neck. “The suture’s there, it never healed properly. That fancy-ass visor of yours should tell you all you need to know. Get _on_ with it.”

He shook himself, focused the visor: sure enough, there was the incision mark. “I am not qualified to extract these,” he said, hesitating.

“Then don’t,” she said, irritated. “Just break the damn thing, and we’ll go find a doctor. But if it’s not disabled before I leave these rooms, we’ll have even _less_ time to escape.”

He took a deep breath, fired up his omniblade. “Do you trust me?”

“Do I have a choice?”

He cut; she bit down on a whimper. The implant wasn’t deep – he carefully sent a tiny sabotage charge into it, which made her jerk and stifle another cry of pain. Before he could put medigel on it, though, she’d dropped her hair and was pulling on a pair of shoes – which, at least, didn’t have six-inch heels.

“Let’s go,” she said. “Best way out is through the north gate. Be ready to hack cameras along the way. I'd help, but I haven't had an omnitool in months. Have you got an extra gun, by any chance?” He handed her his Stiletto, she checked it over, and immediately took point and headed out the door.

Stars and Spirits, this woman was beyond belief.

* * *

> ` 0540 hours, February 19, 2178, Terran Universal Coordinated Calendar `

Shepard had clearly made many allies among the servants: all of them turned a blind eye as they’d dashed through the mansion towards the north gate. They made it back to the skycar in record time.

In the pale light of dawn, he could see that Shepard was in _very_ rough shape – the shift she’d dressed in did little to hide her body. The asari hadn’t been kidding. She was covered in cuts and bruises, there were lacerations on her wrists and ankles, and she wasn’t using her right arm at all. His visor was telling him that her heart rate hadn’t gone below 120 since he’d arrived, and her body temperature was at least two degrees higher than human average.

He unlocked the skycar, opened the door for her—and frowned, as she stopped just outside it. “Everything okay?” he asked.

She didn’t respond for a moment, just sort of looked blankly at the open door in front of her. Then, her shoulders shook, she wrapped her arms around herself, and a single, hoarse, broken sob wrenched itself from her chest.

“Shepard, are you—”

She staggered, swayed; he caught her. She almost felt lighter than his rifle.

He helped her sit, buckled her in – but before he could close the door, she reached up and caught him by the cowl. Her eyes, which had sort of glazed over when she’d swooned, focused on his: it felt like she was looking into his soul. “You never told me your name,” she said, her voice weak – but, he thought, with a core of steel.

“Garrus,” he said. “Garrus Vakarian.”


End file.
